I'm Gonna Be
by Coffee-Flavored Fate
Summary: Romano Italy's a man on a mission. And this time, he's left the white flags at home.                                                                   Eventual S. Italy/U.S.A. Rating subject to change.


**Hetalia: I disclaim all ownership thereof, but reserve the right to appreciate. Really, really hard.**

_*sigh* Here we go again..._

__This was supposed to be a one-shot. A one shot, dammit! It's not working out that way, though. I'm not sure how often it'll update, you don't have to worry that I'm neglecting or not writing for my other stories in favour of this one (Educating America gets precedence, but I end up writing for all of them equally. Yes, even Misconceptions, even if I haven't posted anything for it in a while.)__

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><p>Sometime before dawn, Romano awoke to the realization that he was in love with America.<p>

It wasn't a new revelation. This happened to him on a regular basis, anywhere from once every couple of months, to several times a day for days on end. On average, though, it happened two or three times a week.

What made this morning's revelation different, though, was that Romano finally Decided to Do Something about it.

After all, he thought with a sigh as he got up, it was damn obvious by now that it wasn't going away. He'd been in love with the stupid bastard for...he didn't know how long, now (273 years, 8 months, 15 hours this morning; 99,972 1/2 days in total). It wasn't as if he even remembered when or how it'd happened, in any kind of detail.

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><p><em>August 18th, 1737; a rainy Sunday. England and Spain were taking the day off from their unofficial negotiatons (in hopes of preventing the upcoming war caused by the incident between Spanish and English troops on Amelia Island the previous April), and attending mass with their respective charges. Romano had come fully prepared to hate England's colony on sight- after all, it was his job to hate Spain's enemy's territories- but America hadn't seemed to realise that he was supposed to hate Romano. When he'd caught sight of South Italy in the church, he'd smiled happily and waved, excited to see someone close to his 'age' in a place filled with soldiers and sailors. Romano had been expecting...he didn't know, a miniature England perhaps, all eyebrows and haughty condescension, not this innocent, sweet-natured blond. <em>

_He wasn't sure what to think._

_His confusion only worsened as throughout the service America kept looking over at him, waving and smiling whenever he caught Romano's eye, despite England's scolding whispers. Romano tried to be scandalized -didn't that idiot know how to behave during Mass?- but each time the colony looked over and smiled and waved a warm, fluttering sensation in his stomach grew until he was blushing all over. He tried to stare resolutely ahead and focus on the service, but it didn't help- he could still see America looking and __**smiling**_ _at him out of the corner of his eye._

_After what seemed like an eternity, Benediction finally came (to his immense relief). He hung back as the congregation filed out, waiting until England had led America away and he was safe from those glances and smiles. He even helped with the cleanup, to be extra sure there was no chance of encountering the other boy on his way out. _

_So when he finally exited the building almost an hour later, he was alarmed to see the young colony waiting outside. America stood with his back to the door, staring idly into the cloudy sky, hands clasped behind his back, and Romano wondered if it would be possible to sneak away through the flowerbed to avoid him. Apparently he'd heard Romano's shoes on the path, though, because he'd turned, a smile spreading across his face like sunlight breaking through the clouds; and Romano's heart beat harder than it ever had for Belgium. _

_So when the young colony bounded up to him, all bewilderingly honest blue eyes, bright smiles and innocent pleasure, and asked him if he wanted to play, Romano had been so confused and flustered and embarrassed that he did the only thing he could think of. _

_Pushed America into a puddle, and thrown mud in his hair._

_America had cried, and run to England, who yelled at Spain, who came out to scold Romano, who, already ashamed and embarrassed, got defensive and yelled back at Spain, shutting himself in his room for the rest of the day._

_He was, therefore, understandably surprised and confused when America brought him flowers the next day, which he'd offered to South Italy with a hopeful smile and an invitation to play._

_Heartbeat roaring in his ears, stomach somersaulting madly, Romano'd glanced between the flowers in America's hand, and the bright, smiling face, and fallen in love._

_Horrifed at the realization, overwhelmed again with flustered embarrassment and confusion (flowers? Why flowers? He wasn't a girl, dammit!), and not knowing what else to do, Romano pushed America over, poured dirt in his trousers, grabbed the flowers, and fled to hide in his room, leaving America crying in the dirt._

_They'd left that night, the negotiations a dismal failure, and that'd been the last Romano had seen of America for quite some time._

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><p>He tapped his razor against the sink, glancing up at the old, faded flowers pressed between glass, framed and hung on the wall of his bedroom, reflected in his bathroom mirror. The violets still had some color, as did the indian paintbrush, but the daisies hadn't pressed for shit. The bluebonnet, though, was still bright and blue as America's eyes.<p>

Putting the razor away, he picked up his comb, turning his attention to his hair.

For the longest time he'd tried to ignore it, wait it out, hoping that it would wear off or go away with distance and time. He'd avoided attending world meetings whenever possible (unless he had to go for some reason, or the urge to see America became too strong), the G8, America's birthday parties, anything that was likely to involve the idiot in any way (sometimes it seemed like every damn thing in the world). But as days passed into months, months into years, years into centuries, and instead of fading, the feeling only grew, it became harder and harder to tell himself that it was only a passing infatuation, until finally he had to admit that time and distance wasn't working.

Denial and avoidance had been an utter failure. Having moved on to acceptance, Romano readied himself for full-on pursuit.

Smoothing the last hair into place, he checked himself over, and nodded in satisfaction. Good. _Damn_ good. He was ready.

Time to get this started. If it took another 273 years or longer, he was going to win America over. And _nobody_ could woo a nation like an Italy.

Look out, world; Romano Italy was On the Make.

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><p><em>AN: <em>_That last line is a multi-layered pun._

_I might actually delete this one later, we'll see. I'll end up posting it in some form, either way. _


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